


Like This and Like This (Dreams of Lace)

by primaveracerezos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, HP Kinkfest 2020, Lace Panties, Lunch Dates, M/M, Office Sex, Panty Kink, Top Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22808719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primaveracerezos/pseuds/primaveracerezos
Summary: Harry gets an accidental peek. He can’t think of anything else.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 107
Kudos: 1180
Collections: HP Kinkfest 2020





	Like This and Like This (Dreams of Lace)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HP Kinkfest 2020. Prompt: S83. Panty kink. A learns what B is wearing every day at work and can’t stop thinking about it. Submitted by migrating_coconut.
> 
> Edit: Now accompanied by [ GORGEOUS art](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/post/612048494308491264/commissioned-piece-for-primavera-cerezos-based-on) from the ridiculously talented zigster-ao3!
> 
> Title from Mary Oliver's How Do I Love You?

_How do I love you?  
Oh, this way and that way.  
Oh, happily. Perhaps  
I may elaborate by_

_demonstration? Like_  
this, and  
like this and 

_no more words now_

\- - - - - 

Most mornings, Harry follows the same routine: He apparates to the Ministry, rides the lift to the MLE floor, weaves through the maze of cubicles to his desk, takes a moment to check his memos for anything urgent, then makes his way to the kitchenette for a cup of tea. The kitchenette is down the hall from the Auror office, past the Wizengamot admin offices. It’s not intentional that Harry walks past Draco Malfoy’s desk at about 9:10, it’s just part of the routine. 

About two weeks after Malfoy was hired as a court clerk, after Harry had determinedly not looked his way every morning, Malfoy started nodding at Harry in greeting. Harry nodded back, as one does. They left it at that for months. 

Then one Friday morning, when Harry was particularly cheerful due to his recent sweeping win in the Auror fantasy Quidditch league, he grinned at Malfoy as he passed. Malfoy gave a little wave in return. 

From there, they progressed to saying, “Hello,” “Good morning,” and “Alright?” Some mornings, Harry even stopped for a quick chat. A few times, he asked if Malfoy wanted a cup of tea, and once Malfoy had. _Three sugars and a bit of milk._ Harry had carefully prepared the tea and Malfoy had thanked him politely. 

All said, Draco Malfoy is decidedly part of Harry’s morning routine now. It isn’t that Harry looks forward to seeing him, or that they’re friends. The quick jokes and friendly smiles are equivalent in importance to the twenty-six foot walk from the apparition point to the lift button. Just another step that makes each morning regular. 

Harry doesn’t think about the way Malfoy’s fringe has grown out so it just barely brushes his sharp cheekbones, or the fact that Malfoy wears muggle trousers, shirts, and waistcoats every day. He certainly does not appreciate how said trousers, shirts, and waistcoats are immaculately tailored to Malfoy’s slim frame and make him look like— Well, Harry doesn’t know what Malfoy looks like, because he doesn’t think about it. 

\- - - - -

It’s a Wednesday morning, and Harry already knows the day will be off, because he is waylaid by notoriously chatty Polly Nguyen on his way to the lift and then has three new Very Urgent case files on his desk. By the time he has assigned investigators and liaisons to each of them, it is 11:15, and his head is throbbing from the lack of caffeine. 

When he passes Malfoy’s desk, the chair is empty. Harry frowns and stomps the rest of the way to the kitchenette. He pilfers a banana from the fruit bowl, aware that this will likely be his only break today, and pulls the peel back before starting back to his cubicle. 

Harry catches a glimpse of white-blonde in the Wizengamot file room and stops. Perhaps Malfoy has a moment to chat; perhaps this day won’t be so bad after all. 

It is then that Harry’s brain catches up to what his eyes are seeing. Malfoy is reaching up to a high shelf, assumedly searching for a file. His shirt has come untucked from his trousers. A little sliver of pale skin is visible beneath the hem. 

Below the bare skin is a band of black lace. It disappears into his trousers. 

Harry stops chewing the bit of banana in his mouth. His brain, usually clunky but fully functional, comes to a screeching halt. His thoughts are suddenly replaced with: _Malfoy is wearing lace underwear._

Harry feels as though the world has shifted, or maybe he has entered an alternate universe. Malfoy, to whom Harry says hello every morning, is wearing _lace underwear_. And Harry cannot stop looking at it. 

He can see perhaps four centimeters of the fabric, and he can’t make out any details. Harry thinks, _I want to see more_. His eyes roam down to Malfoy’s arse, covered by the black trousers. He has the impulse to grab, to feel, to pull the trousers down and see Malfoy’s skin hidden coyly behind intricate black _lace_. He pictures, unbidden, how Malfoy would look with his arse in the air, knickers pulled to one side as Harry presses his cock in his tight hole—

“Auror Potter! I was just about to send you a note. Have you had a chance to look at the report Jones sent you about the Greenwich case?”

Harry nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of the voice beside him. He realizes he still has a bite of banana in his mouth and manages to swallow it without choking. He is, for the first time in his career, grateful that Aurors are required to wear uniform robes as he turns to face the witch next to him. 

“Er, hello, Wently. I haven't seen it yet - three VU cases this morning, if you can believe.” Harry clears his throat. “I’ll have a look when I get back to my desk and owl you.”

Wently huffs. “Yes, I suppose that will do.” She stalks off down the corridor. 

“Always lovely, that Talia, isn’t she?” Malfoy says. Harry can hear the smirk before he sees it. 

“She’s a charmer,” Harry answers. He turns to face Malfoy, who has tucked his shirt back into its place and looks proper as ever. Harry thinks of the lace; he recalls the thoughts he had moments ago. A flush creeps up his cheeks. 

“Alright, Potter?” Malfoy asks, cocking his head. “You look a bit poorly.”

 _Lace_ , Harry’s brain helpfully supplies. _Lace knickers_. “Yeah, ‘m fine.” He clears his throat. “Rough morning so far.”

“Mm, sounds like it. Well, I’ve got to get back to this. See you.” Malfoy shrugs and resumes shifting through the folders scattered on the table. 

\- - - - - 

It takes just about all the willpower Harry has to concentrate on his job that day, despite the ridiculous amount of work there is to get done. As he thought, there’s no chance for lunch or a break; he barely manages to get to the bathroom for a piss, and even then, a junior Auror follows him in to ask a question. But as Harry mechanically delegates tasks and attends meetings and reads reports, his thoughts continually stray back to the lace. 

Harry has questions now: Does Malfoy wear lace underwear every day, or just today? Would the knickers feel soft against Harry’s hand, or rough? If Malfoy has more than one pair, are they all black, or are there other colors? Harry catches himself smirking when he thinks of Malfoy wearing Slytherin-green under his high-end clothes, which leads to an image of Malfoy wrapped in Gryffindor red, which Harry forces himself to extinguish as quickly as it blooms in his mind. It takes several recitations of Cannons lineups before his blood pressure returns to normal. 

\- - - - -

Thursday morning, Harry’s routine is blessedly uninterrupted. No memos poke him on his way to the lifts; no one stops to gawk at him; his desk is miraculously clear of glowing red file folders. He hangs up his coat, drops his bag on the floor, and makes for the kitchen. Just like always. 

The peaceful morning has him so cheerful that he forgets, for a moment, about the lace. That is, at least, until he sees Malfoy, all posture and poise, furiously covering some parchment with his delicate handwriting. Harry immediately feels his face flush and his horrible brain offers: _Arse. Knickers, arse, lace, fuck. Soft._

Malfoy looks up and smiles—damn it all, when did Malfoy start smiling at him?— and Harry makes what he hopes is a passable attempt at a nod in Malfoy’s direction before careening into the kitchen, desperately hoping his robes are hiding his erection. 

He waits until Malfoy leaves his desk before sneaking back to his office. He has lunch delivered. 

\- - - - -

By Friday, Harry is well and truly wrecked.

He dreams of the taste of come and his traitorous head supplies a hypothesis of what lace would feel like on his tongue. He brings himself off in bed, then again in the shower. His skin feels too tight. He so rarely craves something— _someone_ —like this. He’s dying to see more of Malfoy, to taste him, to feel the soft threads under his hands. 

In the night he decided the lace would be soft—Malfoy would never subject himself to roughness. 

Or maybe he would?

Harry wonders how much sexual frustration one can endure before one’s body combusts. He feels like he is close to that limit. 

He stops on his way to the Ministry for tea and breakfast—he’s not going to make the same mistake as yesterday—and he’s a little relieved that Nguyen is waiting for him at the apparition point to yap about something. He even does his best to listen to what she’s saying. 

His desk is, unfortunately, clear, but Nguyen stays around to complain about bylaws for nearly an hour before he really can’t take it anymore and says he needs the loo. Harry knows this is a risk, but he feels it would be inappropriate for Head Auror to fall asleep while listening to an employee. Nguyen reassures him that she will document her concerns and bring them to him in writing. Harry thanks her for her diligence. 

The loo is clear and Harry takes the opportunity to breathe. Big, round breaths like Hermione taught him. He’s fine. He’s in control of himself. He washes his face and makes his way back to his office. 

Malfoy is there. He’s got a foot on the arm of one of the chairs in front of Harry’s desk, and he’s bent over to tie his shoe. 

His shirttail has gotten bunched up in the back of his waistcoat somehow. 

A kiss of intricate, red lace is visible above his belt. 

Harry nearly collapses. “Malfoy!” he yelps, unnecessarily loudly. 

Malfoy jumps and turns, pulling his wand from his sleeve in one smooth motion. Of course, Harry thinks vaguely, even in a panic he’s graceful. “Potter, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” says Harry, too quickly. “What are you doing here?”

Malfoy purses his lips. “Well, I thought I might see if you had lunch plans, but if I’m unwelcome, I’m happy to leave you in peace.” 

“Lunch?”

Malfoy’s eyes slide toward the door. Harry moves sideways; he doesn’t like anyone blocking him in rooms, and he’s willing to bet Malfoy likes his exits clear too. “Yes, Potter. Lunch. Usually a midday meal. You do eat meals? I suppose that was rather a leap—”

“I eat lu—”

“Forget it. See you in the morning, Potter.” Draco is out the door before Harry can process what’s happened.

\- - - - -

“He said ‘See you in the morning’?”

Harry groans and lays his head down on the sticky bar top. “What does that even mean?”

Ron chuckles. “I’d wager it means he’ll see you in the morning, mate.”

It’s late, later than Ron and Harry have been out drinking in years. Harry knows Ron wants to go home to Hermione and the kids, but the very last thing he wants is to go home and rattle around Grimmauld Place.

“I haven’t seen you like this since Brad and you were gaga for him. What’s Malfoy done to you?” Ron rubs soothing circles on Harry’s back. 

It’s funny, Harry thinks, he always pegged Hermione as the mother hen of their group, but it was Ron all along. 

He wonders what Ron’s reaction would be if Harry told him about the lace. It only took three drinks for Harry to confess he couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation (if you could call it that); one more and he’d probably feel okay about giving up the rest of the details. Harry realizes that most likely means it’s time to go to bed.

“I dunno,” he mumbles into the counter. 

Ron pats Harry’s back. “My advice is: Act normal, try not to be a prat around him, see what happens. Have normal conversations.”

Harry nods and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just—” He cuts off with a sigh. Harry doesn't know what it is about Malfoy. He’s always been able to get under Harry’s skin, hasn’t he?

\- - - - -

As Harry rides the lift up to the Auror department, he takes deep breaths. _We’re acting normal_ , he tells his wildly beating heart. It doesn’t help. He’s not going to be weird around Malfoy; not because of the lace or whatever it was that happened yesterday. It’s just Malfoy, a (very) attractive man who happens to work along Harry’s route to the break room. Good for small talk. Part of the routine. Nothing else. 

“Yeah, right,” he mumbles to himself. Well, if he can’t think normally about Malfoy, he can at least act sane. 

Hopefully. 

Harry drops his bag in his office, rolls his eyes at a memo someone has charmed to sparkle annoyingly, and makes his way for tea. His stomach barely flips when he sees Malfoy is at his desk, face scrunched in concentration as he writes furiously. Harry makes a plan: He’ll wave if Malfoy looks up, he’ll say hello if Malfoy does. That’s all. 

But Malfoy doesn’t look up. He doesn't say hello. He goes on with the parchment, apparently deep in thought. 

Of course, Harry doesn’t mind. He walks on by. Maybe someone’s brought something in for breakfast, something good. That’s what he should be thinking about. Not the delicate crease between Malfoy’s eyebrows, the slightly pouty purse of his lips. 

He breathes. In, out. He’s got to shake this—it’s not sustainable. He’s Head Auror, for Merlin’s sake. Harry needs his focus for cases, for supervising the Aurors, for meetings with the Minister, for testifying in front of the Wizengamot. 

_Not_ for Draco Malfoy, and certainly not for Draco Malfoy’s lace underwear. 

Harry’s focus is so precisely not on Malfoy, in fact, that he’s strategically looking at the cup of tea in his hand as he walks back. This, combined with his quick pace and mantra of _don’t think about him, don’t think about him_ , results in a collision with some poor clerk who looks barely out of Hogwarts. 

Harry and the kid are both covered in scalding hot Earl Grey, the kid babbling, “I’m sorry, so sorry—Harry—I mean—Auror Potter—so sorry—” as Harry wishes he could sink into the carpet. 

“It’s fine. Are you burnt?” Harry asks, laser focused on not looking at Malfoy sitting at his desk four feet away. 

“No sir, not burnt—well, maybe, erm—yeah I do think—”

Malfoy, for his part, is cackling. 

Harry treats the clerk’s minor burn, vanishes the spilt tea, and practically runs to his office. He slams the door and groans. Don’t be a prat, Ron said. Obviously that was too much to hope for, since Harry has always been and will always be a brainless sod when Malfoy is around. 

And now he doesn’t even have tea. 

\- - - - -

“And the tea was everywhere, and this clerk was probably fourteen, and Malfoy just sat there and _laughed_ —”

“Shh, shh, love—”

Harry is aware that baby Hugo seems to be having some sort of newborn emotional crisis and that Hermione is talking to the baby, not Harry, but (though he will die before admitting it) he pretends it’s for him. 

“Harry, everything is fine. Everyone spills tea. It happens. It sounds like you took care of it quickly and left with your dignity,” Hermione says.

He huffs. “Bet Malfoy doesn’t spill tea.”

There is silence, and Harry can feel Hermione rolling her eyes through the phone. “I am sure that Malfoy spills tea; actually, I remember seeing him do it once at Hogwarts.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Look, Harry, I don’t know why you’ve reverted to your teenage crush on him—”

“I didn’t have a crush—!”

“—but if you really want to stop being miserable, you need to talk to him. You said he was asking you to lunch? Ask him back. If he says yes, there you go. If he says no, give him space.”

Harry is silent. She’s right. 

He hates when Hermione is right.

\- - - - -

“Here.”

Malfoy looks at the paperboard box Harry’s just dropped on his desk. “What’s that?”

“Chicken alfredo.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s for lunch. For you. Look, I’ve got lunch as well.” Harry gestures at his own carton. 

Malfoy frowns. “Why?”

Harry sighs and pulls a chair to Malfoy’s desk. “Because it’s lunchtime.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, pretending his heart isn’t racing. 

“What if I don’t like chicken alfredo?” 

Harry raises his eyebrows. “You get it from the cafeteria at least once a week. I assumed you liked it, but I guess I could see you just torturing yourself with it.” He takes another bite and prays Malfoy never asks why Harry knows what he eats for lunch. 

Malfoy tentatively picks up the fork and pokes at his food. “But why—?”

“Just eat, Malfoy. I don’t have any answers.”

Malfoy snorts at him but dutifully takes a bite. He closes the file folders spread across his desk and waves them away. “So we’re doing this now?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” he says, nodding at the food. 

“We’re eating lunch. Ministry cafeteria food.”

Malfoy nods, glances at Harry, and keeps eating. 

\- - - - -

The following day is Saturday, which means Harry has a Little League Quidditch game (the Noble Nifflers narrowly lose, and he buys them all ice creams). After packing up their supplies and fielding questions from some overzealous (and over-competitive) parents, he takes a leisurely nap at home (to recover from a somewhat frantic wank featuring high cheekbones and a blond undercut). He’s starving when he wakes up at half four, so he rings Seamus and convinces him to bring Dean round for dinner. 

Harry is not a good cook, but he is a dedicated one. Molly taught him his favorite recipes; that, combined with a few cookbooks and some enthusiasm, has enabled Harry to semi-successfully make a handful of dishes he feels proud of. He often thinks that if Molly had been his potions teacher, he might have done better. 

Seamus and Dean arrive with wine and cupcakes. Seamus helps himself to Harry’s mismatched collection of wine glasses while Harry serves the lasagne. They all eat far too much and find themselves flushed, wine-drunk, and giggly.

Harry smiles when Dean toys with a little curl around Seamus’s ear. Seamus catches the look. 

“What about you, Hare? Got anyone on the hook at the moment?”

Harry chuckles. “Not really, no.”

“Not really, or no?” Dean says with a grin. 

“Aye, they’re different,” Seamus agrees. 

“I—” Harry’s not sure what to say. “There is someone I kind of—”

“ _Who_? Not another Quidditch player, please.” Dean was the one who introduced Harry to Brad, the American Keeper with a big laugh and great arms. It had been awkward between Dean and Harry for months after Harry broke it off with Brad.

“Not a Quidditch player. Anymore. He works at the Ministry, actually.” 

“Oh?” Dean sits back in his chair. “Who do we know who’s single and queer at the Ministry?”

“It’s—”

“No, no. Let us guess. I love this game.” Seamus purses his lips. “Devon? In Mysteries? Ah, no, he’s too much of a—-unless?”

“Not Devon.” Harry gets up to refill his glass. He’s going to need it to play this game with them. “He’s a prat.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been known to like prats,” Dean points out. “Wait! No—is it—?”

“Malfoy?” Seamus finishes. “That little git?”

“He’s not a git,” Harry’s quick to say, too quick. “Well, he is, yeah..but he has, you know...changed.”

“I haven’t seen him in years. Does he still do his hair like this?” Dean mimes slicking his hair back with a posh look.

“Er, no, it’s sort of— You know, like Ginny’s girlfriend, Ursula? With the—sides?” 

“Harry, you’re the worst gay. It’s called an undercut. I had one.”

“I’m not the worst gay! I’m, like, maybe the tenth worst.”

Seamus and Dean laugh. “Okay, not as bad as Melvin,” admits Seamus. “He didn’t even know who _David Bowie_ was. He’s muggleborn!”

“And he hates Celestina Warbeck!”

“Disgraceful,” Harry agrees, making a mental note to look up David Bowie.

\- - - - -

Monday morning, Harry makes it to his office without any major incidents (just Wently reminding him about a Greenwich briefing that afternoon, in the most annoying possible way). He closes the door, takes off his stuffy Head Auror robe, and eyes the unfriendly-looking stack in his inbox with suspicion. Nothing good is ever on the top of the stack on Monday morning. It’s always something terrible. 

That knowledge in mind, he skips the top file (it squeals at him). Beneath it is a single piece of parchment. Harry’s heart leaps at the familiar handwriting - ridiculously elegant, sloping letters that send him straight back to Hogwarts. 

_Potter,_

_Perhaps we could try eating lunch in a place that is not my desk today. Let me know if you are amenable._

_D_

He smiles and pulls out a fresh sheet.

_How about the floor next to your desk?_

_Head Auror Potter, to you, also._

_\- H.A. Potter_

He snaps and the paper folds into a little crane—another souvenir from his Hogwarts days. The crane flies out under his office door. 

Well, he’s not just going to sit here and wait for a response, that would be sad; and besides, that top file has begun to steam like a tea kettle. With a sigh, Harry opens it up. _Great. More murders_ , he thinks, then immediately feels guilty. For penance, he actually reads the details of the case and gives it consideration before assigning it to Ullery. They’ve been wanting a more challenging case, and this one looks tricky. 

That settled, Harry sorts out the next few files quickly—robbery, spell damage to residence, broom theft, missing toad—and he’s just about to get up for tea when a paper dragon slides under his door. 

_Hardheaded Arsehole Potter,_

_You’re such a barbarian. There’s a place I know. We’ll go there._

_D_

Harry realizes he’s smiling, clears his face, then rereads the note and smiles again. 

\- - - - -

The cafe is surprisingly casual. Harry expected marble and gold, stiff-tuxedoed waiters, tiny dishes he couldn’t pronounce, that sort of thing. Instead, he’s met with the smell of coffee and bread when they walk in. The walls are covered in posters and paintings. They sit at a little table beneath a wide canvas smeared with bright colors. 

The menu is full of the kind of food Harry is accustomed to eating at the Burrow: Pies and potatoes and toasties and sweets. Malfoy orders a sandwich and chips; Harry opts for kidney pie.

While they wait, Malfoy points out the canvases and talks about the artists who painted them. The one Harry likes most is by a young artist Draco seems to admire, judging by the way his eyes go soft when he talks about the brushstrokes. Harry considers buying it, but wonders if that would be too awkward. He decides against it.

Their food arrives steaming hot. It is incredible; Harry hasn’t had anything this comforting since he left Hogwarts. 

“So what brings you to a place like this?” he asks Malfoy in between mouthfuls. 

Draco shrugs. “I like it.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and nods. “It’s nice. Cozy.”

They’re quiet as the funky music from the cafe’s speakers fills the space. Harry finds himself feeling comfortable, strangely so. He feels sort of warm, like he does at Ron and Hermione’s house when he’s there late, after a few beers and food and games of chess. 

It’s a little disconcerting, watching Malfoy dump vinegar on his chips and feeling this way. 

“Why are you looking at me?” 

It’s Harry’s turn to shrug. “Dunno. You were so posh in school. I guess I never imagined you in a place like this, eating a toastie.”

“No? What did you imagine me eating?” 

Harry’s stomach flips. Is Malfoy flirting or just being his usual prickly self? “Posh stuff. French food. What’s coq au vin? Maybe that.”

“Hmm. I do like coq au vin.” 

“So I’m right.”

Malfoy smirks. “I contain multitudes, Potter. It is possible, you see, to enjoy pub fare _and_ fine cuisine. Good food is good food.” He pauses. “Also, it turns out it’s quite difficult to cook posh food when you only have a single stove burner and a tea kettle.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah, I could see that. Your new place didn’t come with a cook?”

“It barely came with a toilet.”

“You must live in the same building as Dean and Seamus,” Harry says. “Their flat didn’t have floors when they moved in.”

“No floors?”

“Yeah, just boards.”

“Good god. I never thought I’d be grateful for floors.” 

Harry’s face hurts from smiling by the time he’s back in his office. 

\- - - - -

They go on for two weeks, eating lunch together. Sometimes in the cafe, a few days in the Ministry cafeteria, twice on the couch in Harry’s office. Harry tries not to read too much into it; friends eat lunch together all the time. He and Hermione meet up every few weeks when their schedules align. It’s a friendly thing. 

But Harry doesn’t feel friendly towards Draco. He barely catches himself before reaching out to touch Malfoy’s hand; he constantly second-guesses whether he’s sitting too close, staring too much. He is, he knows. But Malfoy’s mouth moves in these horrible, wonderful ways when he talks, when he smiles. Malfoy has that same smirk that used to make Harry’s hands curl into fists. Now Harry doesn’t really feel less violent; he wants to bite Malfoy’s lips, his neck, his fingers. He wants to bruise him, scratch him, maybe smack him—but he wants Malfoy to like it. 

He wants Malfoy to _ask_ for it. 

And Harry badly, badly wants to see the lace again. He wants to ask about it. He wants to feel it. 

With Harry’s combined lack of impulse control and single mindedness, it’s a miracle the lunch dates have gone on this long. It’s a testament to Harry’s desire to see this—whatever it is—through. 

\- - - - -

It’s a Thursday. Malfoy barges into Harry’s office raving about file mismanagement, waving two cartons of curry, just after noon. No invitation, no knock. 

Harry likes that. 

“—and Wilfred said—get this—Wilfred said it doesn’t even matter!” Malfoy’s saying as he opens the curry on Harry’s coffee table. He produces two forks, drops one on the empty plate he’s set aside for Harry, and piles every bit of paneer onto his own plate. “Doesn’t matter? I’ll hear him say that when it’s the middle of the night and there’s five Aurors breathing down his neck while he tries to pull files that aren’t color-coded! Honestly. How else would we know—”

Harry’s trying not to smile as he sits next to Draco. “You’ve taken all the cheese again, you prat.” He scoops some of the little cubes from Malfoy’s plate to his, then loads up with rice and daal.

“—can’t even tell person files from place! Next it’ll be, what, alphabetical by average temperature in June?” Malfoy heaves a heavy sigh. “I like the cheese. And it’s called paneer.”

“I know it’s called paneer. I’m the Desi here, you’re the colonizer.”

Malfoy snorts. “That’s fair.”

“Did you get naan?” 

“Of course I did, I’m not an animal.” Draco leans over the side of the couch, reaching for a paper bag. With his arm stretched out, the side of his shirt pulls free from his trousers.

A sliver of delicate white lace is just visible above Malfoy’s belt. 

Harry stops breathing.

Draco sets the bag on the table between them. “Here. Have to do everything myself, do I?”

Harry hums and takes a bite. He knows his cheeks are red. He keeps his eyes on his plate.

“Potter, why do you look like someone’s stuffed a pillow up your arse?”

“I do not. What would that even look like?”

“Like you look right now. All—” Draco widens his eyes dramatically.

“Shut it. I’m eating.”

Draco eyes him. “Right.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Harry determinedly not looking at Malfoy but also trying not to look like he’s not looking. It’s awkward.

Finally, Malfoy nudges Harry with his shoulder. “What’s left for your day?”

Harry pretends his heart isn’t pumping out of his chest at the contact. It shouldn’t be. It’s shoulders touching for half a second through multiple layers of clothing. Not like it would feel if it was Malfoy’s hand on his waist or Harry’s lips on Malfoy’s neck; _that_ would be cause for the way Harry feels right now. 

“Erm.” Harry takes a big gulp of water. “Sorry, what?”

Draco does that thing again where he looks at Harry like he’s figuring out an arithmancy problem. “I asked what you’re doing today.” 

“Sorry. Nothing, really. A few meetings, a case review.” Harry shrugs. “You?”

“So nothing stressful.”

Harry frowns. “No, not really.”

“Anything big happening tomorrow?”

“I—o, just normal—hy are you asking?”

Draco pauses, considers. “I’m extrapolating data.”

“Extrapolating—?”

“Do I stress you out?” Malfoy’s face has become unreadable, that careful blank slate he pulls when he’s guarding his feelings. 

Harry doesn’t know why he knows that. 

“Do you—? What do you mean?” Harry feels his blush creep down his neck. 

“I suppose I should rephrase. I _know_ that you get stressed around me. My question is, rather, what _kind_ of stress it is.” 

Harry is aware, now, of how close they are. He pulls in a breath and wonders if that’s the same air Malfoy just breathed out. He looks, carefully, at Malfoy’s eyes. His pupils are wide and black. Harry sees something there, just behind the cool mask, something dangerous.

Slowly, so that it feels like an eternity, Harry lets his hand go where it’s wanted to for weeks. 

Maybe longer, if he thought about it, but he’s not thinking right now.

He brushes his thumb against Draco’s lips, curls his fingers under Draco’s jaw. He feels the stubble there. He feels the slight crack in Draco’s bottom lip where it’s chapped. Draco inhales, shakily, but doesn’t move. 

“You do make me—well, I’m not sure stressed is the right word.” Harry barely recognizes his own voice, deeper and quieter. He strokes his hand down Draco’s neck. His skin is soft, warm.

“What is the right word?” Draco asks, a dare in his eyes. 

Harry has never been good with words. He turns in the small distance between them, his hand on Draco’s shoulder, and hovers his lips above Malfoy’s. He waits half a moment, in case he’s read this wrong, to give Draco a chance to shove him off. Instead, Draco closes the space, pressing his lips to Harry’s and winding long, slender fingers through Harry’s hair. 

Harry can’t help the small noise that escapes, a little bit of surprise but mostly relief. Draco smiles against him. Harry takes Draco’s waist, pulls him close, and Draco molds to him with more kisses, needy and fast. Before he can consider what he’s doing, Harry grabs Draco’s shirt, pulls it up, and his fingers find their way to Draco’s waistband. 

To the lace. 

He moans, but he’s too turned on to stop out of embarrassment. Against Draco’s skin, the lace is warm, soft, exactly what Harry has been imagining but somehow _more_. He runs his hand around to Draco’s lace-covered arse, feeling overwhelmed and out of control. 

Draco bites his lip hard and shoves him back. “Lay down.” 

Harry does as he’s told, but he reaches for Draco. 

Draco is flushed, lips parted, and he looks beautiful. He gets a knee between Harry’s thighs before Harry pulls him down. He can feel that Draco is already hard against him. Draco grabs Harry’s wrist, kisses the thin skin over his veins, nips his way to Harry’s elbow. 

“Shirt?” Draco mumbles, and Harry waves a charm over the neat line of buttons. He wriggles one arm free of a sleeve and Draco is kissing his shoulder, his neck. Harry’s leg is curled around Draco’s and he feels like a teenager but he can’t help it; Draco smells intoxicatingly good and he’s making these little sounds, like words in another language that Harry can’t quite catch.

Harry sneaks his hands down Draco’s back, fully pulls the linen shirt from his trousers, rucks up the nice pinstripe waistcoat. He wants to feel all of Draco’s skin, starting here and working his way around. He thinks, half mad with want, he could spend days or weeks feeling all of Draco. He wants to inventory every bit of skin, every pale hair and soft wrinkle and secret freckle. 

But then Draco sucks Harry’s nipple into his mouth and those sort of thoughts are gone. All that’s left is, _Oh god, oh my god_ , which is coincidentally what’s coming out of his mouth, too. He feels Draco smile and Harry swipes his tongue across Draco’s teeth.

He snakes a hand between them and starts on Draco’s belt. Draco bucks against him, huffs a surprised breath. 

“That alright?” Harry murmurs, pausing until Draco whispers, “Yeah, _god_.” Harry moves onto Draco’s buttons, doing his best to make his fingers work while Draco sucks a love bite into his collarbone. 

And then Harry’s hand is stroking Draco’s cock through the lace and Harry wonders if you can die from happiness. It’s better than he imagined, all those nights in bed and mornings in the shower. Draco is thick, the tip leaking through the fabric, and Harry _needs_ to—

“Wanna taste you,” he growls. “Come up—can you sit—” But he doesn’t have to finish because Draco is already shoving his trousers down his legs. He moves to pull the panties down too, but Harry stills his hand. “Leave them.”

Draco arches his stupid, posh, beautiful eyebrow. “Oh?”

Harry feels dizzy with desire. “Keep them on and come here.”

Draco climbs up, straddles Harry’s chest. Harry takes a moment to drink this in—Draco, flushed pink, looking down through his eyelashes as his cock twitches inches from Harry’s lips—but it’s a quick moment, because Harry thinks if he doesn’t get his lips around that prick in the next few seconds he’ll explode. 

He takes hold of Draco’s arse with one hand and waves his other over Draco’s shirt and waistcoat, which both disappear. Harry ignores Draco’s indignant huff and pulls his pelvis closer. He licks a long stripe up Draco’s lace-wrapped cock and doesn’t bother holding back his groan. 

Draco leans forward and braces his hands against the arm of the couch. “ _Fuck_ , Potter.”

Harry runs his hand up Draco’s abdomen, through the thick blond hair from his cock to his navel. “Was hoping you’d fuck _me_ , actually.” He sucks the tip of Draco’s cock in his mouth, savoring the texture of the panties against his tongue. Draco moans and weaves his fingers through Harry’s curls. 

Shifting a little lower, Harry sucks what he can of Draco’s sac. Draco squirms, thrusts in tight little jolts, and Harry flicks one of Draco’s nipples with his thumb. He wants so badly for Draco to feel as exquisite as Harry does. Draco gasps, growls. He reaches down and pulls his cock from the confines of the lace, circles the base with tight fingers. Harry chances a glance up. Draco’s eyes are burning hot, his lips swollen and red, his mouth open in a pant.

“Suck me,” Draco pleads, his voice deeper than Harry’s ever heard it. “Please, suck—” 

Harry takes Draco into his mouth and sucks. The angle makes it difficult for him to pull Draco in as much as he wants to, but he curls his fingers around Draco’s and strokes what won’t fit. Harry can feel his own cock leaking in his pants. Draco smells so good, hot and clean, and Harry doesn’t touch himself because he knows he’ll come. He twists his free hand into the white lace and moans at all the sensations—Draco pushing over his tongue, his salty precome bitter and sweet, his weight on Harry’s chest, the horrible teasing press of Harry’s boxers against his desperate prick—and as he strokes his thumb across the lace again, he knows he’s close, he won’t even need to touch himself.

“I’m close,” Draco says, somewhere between a whine and a groan. Harry wants to live there, in that breathy wanting moment. He nods, pulls Draco even closer, tries to remember to breathe—

The office door bursts open. “H.A. Potter, did you get a moment to— Oh. Oh my god.”

Harry freezes. Draco backs off with a, “Shit.”

Standing in the doorway, white as a ghost, is Polly Nguyen. Her eyes are fixed on Harry’s. He can’t look away from her, very conscious of the amount of spit that’s accumulated around his mouth. 

She turns around and slams the door behind her. 

\- - - - -

Harry attends the required meetings. He is spoken to by the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, the Lead of Personnel, the Director of the Staff Personal Liaison Committee, several members of the Wizengamot, a delegate of the French Office Management Task Force, and, of course, Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

He signs a formal Disciplinary Action Plan (which states his office will be added to the list of Amourous Relations Surveillance Sites); he denies any use coercive magic; he dodges two invitations to state dinners; he gives awful advice about disclosing personal relationships to one’s superiors; he agrees to have a mediated counseling session with Penny Nguyen; and he suffers through a horrific conversation with Kinsley about safer sex.

He is concerned that he will die of embarrassment. Then the concern turns to hope. 

He has not seen Draco for two days.

\- - - - -

_D,_

_Lunch?_

_H_

_H,_

_Dinner?_

_D_

_D,_

_Cafe tonight at 6?_

_H_

_H,_

_See you then._

_D_

\- - - - -

The cafe is more crowded in the evening than lunchtime. There’s a live band, a trio playing soft love songs. The paintings have rotated, an attempt by the owners to mix things up. The server forgets to bring the bread Harry orders for his soup. Someone at another table steals the third chair at theirs. 

Harry and Draco don’t notice any of it.

Draco traces his fingers over Harry’s palm, his wrist. Harry feels a trail of electricity follow along, or maybe magic. His heart’s been racing for hours. Days. 

They leave halfway through their meals. By the time they fall through Harry’s front door, Draco’s sweater has been Vanished and Harry’s jeans are undone. 

Draco fucks Harry fast, the first time, on the first stair landing. Harry shudders as he comes, legs wrapped around Draco’s waist, one hand tangled in the black lace around Draco’s hips. He watches Draco’s face as he comes just after. Draco watches him too. 

The next time, a few hours later, Draco washes Harry in the shower, fingers him delicate and sweet. Harry thinks he’s never been more vulnerable or turned on. He rides Draco on his bed, leisurely, reverently, and Draco presses hot kisses everywhere he can reach. Draco comes first, then spends a glorious eternity with his mouth on Harry’s hole. He wraps black, silky lace around Harry’s cock and strokes so, _so_ slowly until Harry has to beg: “Please, Draco, pleasegodfuck _please_ —” 

Draco moans as Harry comes. He covers Harry’s body with his own, whispers in his ear, “You did so well,” and Harry can’t help the sigh that escapes. He falls asleep and dreams of lace.


End file.
